


Poppy

by uumuu



Series: Hanazakari [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Come as Lube, Father/Son Incest, First Time, Flowers, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6467059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor and Maedhros upset a perfectly peaceful poppy field.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poppy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> For amyfortuna, who wanted to read more about Fëanor and Maedhros's first time as mentioned in [With the thousandth colour of a flower](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2433239)
> 
> Fills the free space square (with the first time/last time trope) in my Trope Bingo card.

Poppy fields have a distinctive smell to them. Not a scent – the flowers proper are odourless – but mingled with grass and earth they lend a sharp fragrance to the meadows where they grow, and this one is the largest Maitimo has ever seen, stretching from the border of the forest at their back downhill to another forest. The narrow road winding its way along the south side of it encircles it in a generous embrace. His father and he lie side by side right in the middle of it, immersed in waves of red swaying gently with the breeze.

They had decided to cross the field to make it to their destination faster just as much as to enjoy its beauty. The flowers had seemed fire-red when they had arrived in Laurelin's rich ripe light – the area being much closer to the trees than Tirion is – a temptation neither of them could resist. Now, as Laurelin begins to decline, the flowers seem just a shade darker, closer to crimson. 

“Let's go,” Fëanáro mumbles, stretching his arms over his head, “we should be able to make it to the next valley before the Mingling if we go now.”

He stretches his legs too, but doesn't move any more than that in spite of his words.

Maitimo shifts to lie on his side, propping himself up with his elbow to look at his father's face. It's half contemplation half hesitation: it was not the flowers that occupied his mind while he lay looking up at the sky. He opens his mouth and immediately shuts it again. Then he re-opens it.

“Make love to me,” he blurts.

“Now?” Fëanáro says, his head snapping towards him. “Here?”

Maitimo nods, not shyly at all even faced with his father's surprise. Having said those words out loud has rather emboldened him. 

“This isn't the right place. It would be uncomfortable –”

“I don't care about comfortable,” Maitimo interrupts, unprepared – and unwilling – to accept a refusal even though rationally he knows his father is right.

Of course a poppy field isn't the best place to have sex for the first time, but he can't stand the idea of waiting even a day longer to be with his father the way he's been dreaming of for so long. It has been years since he first confessed his love – his unfilial, shameless, avid love – to his father by leaving a heap fire-tulips on the desk of his bedroom. Fëanáro accepted his love, dealt with it as if it had been in the natural course of things, but also insisted that they should wait until he was of age to do anything more than kiss. 

They kept that promise diligently, restraining themselves to chaste kisses and hugs, but they also took to spending more and more time together, and going on long journeys together. Each of those journeys has taken them further from home than the one before, to see new places, to meet new people, all on their own – in intimate, easeful closeness, but always one step removed from consummation. 

“What should the right place be like? I want to have sex with you, now. Either we can be lovers in full, or I must conclude you don't really love me as you say.”

No sooner have those words left Maitimo's mouth that his father's face creases with such hurt that Maitimo curses under his breath. He bites his lower lip, chiding himself for speaking so impulsively. “Sorry...I do know you love me, and I am...overjoyed by your regard and your concern for me. The fact that you didn't just take me and insisted we should wait until I was completely ready makes me happier than I can say. But I don't need to wait any longer. I need you now. I need you. So very much. I want to feel your hands on me and touch you all over in turn. You –...you don't know how many times I've touched myself pretending it was you doing it, your hands on me, but it isn't enough. It cannot be. Please –”

“Shhh,” Fëanáro's right hand shoots up and presses against Maitimo's cheek, in a soothing gesture, seeing as he is becoming frantic. “If you truly want to, we will do it, but here, where anybody could see us –”

“Who?” Maitimo interposes. “There are no houses as far as the eye can see, and we haven't encountered another elf since we set out this morning. Who would spy on us? Let all of Yavanna's plants bear witness to our lovemaking, let every single beast of Oromë's watch, let Manwë ogle from his lofty airs!”

“You're a lousy poet,” Fëanáro remarks with a chuckle, his expression easing. He scoots closer to Maitimo and rolls over so that he is resting half over him.

Their faces are almost level, and Fëanáro leans in for a kiss. It wasn't meant to be a passionate kiss, but Maitimo opens his mouth and clamps it over his father's as if to devour it, sucking Fëanáro's tongue into his own mouth, too.

The sensation is new, utterly intoxicating. Even the gratification of his solitary orgasms achieved by conjuring images of his father loses its thrill compared to the ardour of his father's mouth, of his lips crushed under his, of the ravenous slide of their tongues against each other. But Maitimo doesn't let it overwhelm him, luxuriating in it in full.

They pull back slowly, their tongues impregnated with each other's taste, as a prelude to their union. A light breeze wafts from the north, carrying the smell of grass and earth.

Maitimo takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with it. 

“Fëanáro,” he moans, uttering his father's name as a vow, and licks his father's lips. “I want to be joined to you,” he says hoarsely, sounding ridiculously lustful to his own ears, but not caring one whit. He gently takes hold of this father's left hand and brings it to his own crotch, letting his father feel the bulge there. 

The heat from Maitimo's crotch shoots directly to Fëanáro's own cock, but it's the yearning in Maitimo's gaze that convinces him to do what his son asks. He looks at their baggage, furrowing his brow in thought, but can't remember packing anything which they might use as lubricant. 

Maitimo is aware of that, too, but doesn't care. “Take me,” he demands, covering his father's hand with both his own and pressing it more firmly against his clothed erection. 

“No no, I won't take you...” Fëanáro says, and his voice has all the immovability of his self-will. A mumbled protest leaves Maitimo's mouth, but he overrides it. “We will be as effectively joined if you take me, won't we?”

Maitimo's mouth falls shut. He nods stiffly, his cheeks on fire. He has imagined taking his father, he has imagined it in great detail and done it again and again in his mind, humping into an innocent pillow, but had never considered doing it in reality for fear that he would be overstepping himself. 

Fëanáro gives a proper – tantalising – squeeze to his groin before pulling his hand free of his. He waves it in a silent command to lie back again. Maitimo does, resuming his erstwhile position on the crumpled flowers. Once again all he can see is the blue of the sky, the green and red of the poppies, and his father. Uncomfortable or not, he has hard time believing that anybody could have a more sumptuous nuptial bower.

He brings both hands to his waist and unlaces his own pants. His father's hands readily join his, tug down his underwear and his cock springs free, long and engorged, though not fully so yet. 

It's still quite an arresting sight, and Fëanáro's eyes widen in a surprise which is very genuine. “...well, this is the first time I see you erect,” he says in a light tone which does little to hide his amazement.

Maitimo looks down at his own cock and purses his lips in mild worry. “I –”

“It's perfectly sized to the rest of you,” Fëanáro purrs, reaching out to stroke the organ, assessing its girth and hardness. Taking it will be more of a feat than he had anticipated, but he will do it, because Maitimo wants it.

He kneels up and throws one leg over Maitimo's body, then scoots back. 

“I will show just how much I love you, so that you shall never doubt it again.”

Maitimo scoffs, and wants to protest that he had never truly doubted it, but his father's left hand takes hold of his length, stroking it from tip to base in one quick motion, and his thoughts scatter like flower-petals to a gushing wind.

Fëanáro's right hand works with nimble precision to free his own cock. Maitimo catches a glimpse of it before his father wraps his fingers around it and starts stroking it, then his gaze is drawn back to his father's face. Fëanáro smiles and stoops over, bends down until his mouth is level with Maitimo's cockhead. He kisses it once, fleetingly. He lets his open mouth hover upon it, and teases it again with a rapid flick of his tongue.

When he finally moves down to take it inside, Maitimo hisses stiffens and stabs his hips upwards all in one, and falls back into grass with a groan. Fëanáro goes even lower, giving him a heady sample of more, only to slowly pull away. He places kisses down the whole length of his shaft, then drags his tongue up and down the sides of it in drawn-out strokes, and purposefully slobbers all over it too, wetting it thoroughly.

The movement of Fëanáro's right hand is no less vigorous. At times he pauses in fact, taking his tongue off Maitimo's cock, just giving it light kisses while his left hand circles the base, in order to concentrate on his own pleasure.

Maitimo doesn't understand why his father is doing that, but has no reason to protest when just the sight of his father's tongue swirling around his shaft could make him come, and the brief pauses make the pleasure all the more intense every time his father resumes. Maitimo does whine out loud, however, when his father takes both his mouth and hand from him and straightens. 

“We are...almost ready,” Fëanáro pants, quickly stroking himself to orgasm. He covers his cock with both hands to gather his release, and once he's spent himself he brings them to Maitimo's shaft and adds his come to the spit already drenching it. 

Maitimo stares in mixed fascination and lust as the pearly liquid coats him. It's hot, thick, velvety. It's his father. It's the seed of his own life, and now it will allow him to have his father all to himself. His heartbeat speeds up at the thought of just how close he is to it. He makes a high-pitched sound and catches his father's gaze when Fëanáro looks up, silently begging him to hurry.

He is indulged. Fëanáro moves swiftly. He pushes his pants and underwear down, but they bunch around his thighs, preventing him from opening them as wide as he needs to, so he kicks his boots off and his clothes after them, leaving them in a tangle among the poppies. He kneels with his thighs wide-open over Maitimo's crotch, his momentarily spent cock resting on his thigh, and rubs his right hand between his legs. Maitimo's eyes are glued to that spot, and he clearly sees two of his father's fingers disappear inside his hole, smearing it with what's left of his release.

Fëanáro works the fingers in and out for a short while, training himself to stretch. When he is as ready as he can be, he once again takes hold of the base of Maitimo's cock and guides the organ to his entrance. The blunt head presses at it, and he pushes back to allow it inside. 

Maitimo holds his breath, stares, and feels. The fit is incredibly tight, and it seems impossible that he could really go in deeper, but his father is clearly experienced, and knows how to take it even with lack of proper preparation. He descends slowly, balancing himself with his hands on Maitimo's chest, his breathing carefully measured. 

Maitimo is assaulted by jealousy, searing frantic jealousy at the thought of who dared take his father before him, even though he's perfectly aware of how absurd that line of reasoning is, and that that most certainly isn't the time for petty sentiments over something that could have happened before he was even born. Not the rarefied instant when his father completes his descent, shifts on his legs a little, and very slowly tries to sit back.

“Nelyo –” he calls in a sultry whisper – his name never sounded as beautiful before, “please touch me.”

Discomfort shows plainly on his father's face, in his creased forehead, and in his tense posture: he's clearly trying to avoid putting all of his weight on his back. Maitimo curses his own inexperience, and rebukes himself again for only thinking about his own satisfaction. He reaches for his father's bare thighs, pets them for a few moments, relishing the smoothness of the stretched muscles. His right hand travels up to Fëanáro's hip, the left caresses his cock before joining it. He grabs his father's waist through the fabric of the shirt still covering it, in what he hopes is a soothing massage. When he's sure his father has relaxed, and rests more naturally on his knees, Maitimo dares, and tugs on his hips. 

Fëanáro follows his hands' lead and lifts himself a little, only to lower himself again. Having that sort of control makes the moment even more gorgeous. Maitimo does it again, and again, and every time his father's movements become more assured and more fluid. Maitimo actually feels him open up around him, and his cock slides into his passage without meeting any resistance. He starts bucking up into his father, meeting him halfway in his descents, until at last he takes over completely.

“If you prefer taking the lead,” Fëanáro whispers, his breath short, “then you are welcome.” 

He keeps Maitimo on the ground by spreading his palms on his belly and resting his weight onto them, then slides himself off of his cock.

Maitimo nearly wails to be deprived of the wondrous sheath of his father's ass. Fëanáro lies down on the trampled grass where he had been innocently resting not too long before. He he draws his knees up and opens his legs.

Maitimo sits up and hurries to settle between them. He can see the opening he's just been in, slightly reddened and dabbed white with seed.

Fëanáro contracts the muscle and relaxes it again. “Spit on it,” he instructs, pulling his legs back a little and exposing it even more.

Maitimo lifts his head, drunk on arousal and love, and glances at his father's face before turning his attention back to his ass. His thumb pulls the ring of muscle open. He dribbles his own saliva onto it, and watches raptly as his father sucks it in. He spits on his own cock too for good measure, and plunges, grabbing onto his father's legs. From this angle the penetration is not as deep, not as smooth, but he likes the very fact that he has to push, to put all of his strength into driving his cock into his father, over and over again. He starts to imagine how it would feel to be in his father's position and have him inside like that, but soon his thoughts disperse into a blur, and his movements too.

His thrusts speed up and become more forceful. He lets go of his father's legs and arches forward, supporting himself with his hands planted on either side of his father's head. His own panting is deafening to his ears, and the trampled grass fills his nose with a pungent scent which mingles with the smell of the sweat that has appeared on their bodies. He's all but pounding his father into the ground and he knows he should feel outraged to be treating his own father so roughly the first time he's taking him. 

Yet it's only soft moans and endearments that leave Fëanáro's mouth. He stares up at Maitimo, his eyes full of love and trust, and when Maitimo calls his name, Fëanáro lifts his hands to his face and caresses his cheeks. His touch is tender, tickly and Maitimo does slow down while his father holds him like that. But then Fëanáro smooths his hands over his shoulders and pinches his nipples through his shirt, shattering the one chance Maitimo might have had of bringing his desire-fuelled frenzy under control. 

He resumes rutting into his father, devoid of any other consideration except raw physical pleasure and the thrill of fulfilment. His orgasm builds up in a steep surge, and he stares wide-eyed at endless lines of red while he fills his father with his seed.

His eagerly sought release leaves him with his legs quivering and his arms barely supporting him.

Fëanáro takes hold his hips, keeping him up. “Are you happy?” 

Maitimo nods his head. He takes a deep breath and slowly straightens, sitting back on his legs. His hands are caked with dirt and bits of crushed grass, and his knees hurt a little, but his cock is still sheathed from tip to base inside his father, still hard, and he is reluctant to pull out.

“I –...” he begins. Fëanáro's face is sweaty and he has strands of hair sticking to his forehead. Dishevelled, debauched, he looks fairer than a Vala. Maitimo bends down for a kiss, and while his mouth still hovers close to his father's he whispers, “I want more.” 

Fëanáro grins up at him. “I fancied you would. You can do it again, if you wish...more slowly.”

He stretches his right hand out towards Maitimo, and they lace the fingers together.

Maitimo withdraws completely. A gob of his come threatens to spill out of his father, but he catches it with his cockhead and pushes it back in along with his length. He goes slowly, relishing that new penetration, and Fëanáro moves to meet him, murmuring 'yes, like that'. 

It's sweet and drowsy, entrancing, exciting in a completely different way from the frenzied pounding of moments before. And he's taking his father through the wetness of his own seed now, rubbing his own essence into his insides.

After a time, Fëanáro speaks again. “Stay in and roll your hips...I will do the rest.”

Maitimo does as told, burying himself balls-deep and stays like that, just shifting slightly on his knees from time to time. He slips his free hand under his father's shirt, slides it up his chest to tease his nipples, pinching each in turn, and drags it back down over his belly. He stops on his father's cock. Fëanáro's eyes flutter shut in bliss and he mouths a 'yes'. His chest rises and falls as he lifts his hips to push back onto him, a fluid movement that could almost have been one with the flowers' swaying.

When they both come, one following the other – Maitimo couldn't have said who was first – he just crumples forwards, laying his forehead on his father's chest. 

“It's...too good,” he manages to breathe out. “I'm tired out.”

“I agree with you, on both counts,” Fëanáro says with a small laugh: it's not just physical tiredness that envelops them both. “I was going to ask you to carry me for a while...but I guess we'll have to spend the night here.”

“It's really not that bad a place.”

“No, it isn't, but I think I've got several roots and a few small stones stuck into my back,” Fëanáro rolls on his side, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

Maitimo eases himself out of his father before he can be tempted again. He gets off him, but doesn't let go of his hand. He brings it to his mouth instead and kisses each finger. 

“...I'm sorry I was so rough.”

“You aren't sorry.”

Maitimo makes a non-committal sound and shrugs his shoulders, but his lips slowly stretch into a grin. 

“I'm sure you can do worse, too...in a better location,” Fëanáro adds. “Get me my pants, please.” 

Still grinning, Maitimo recovers his father's tangled clothing and hands it to him. Then he tucks his cock back into his pants, and reaches for their bags. Their bedding falls out on its own the moment he opens them, and he only has to spread it on the ground.

Fëanáro finishes tying his pants and scoots on it. 

"I guess you'll have to explain the folks in Aulë's Halls why it took us a couple days more to return.” 

Maitimo joins him. The wind picks up again, and scatters poppy-petals on them. A few land on his father's head, and he lifts his hand to brush them away, but decides not to at the last moment. “Probably something about you...challenging me to do my worst.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know poppies are mostly associated with sleep (their Quenya name húmella is derived from húmë, sleep) and dreams, but they have several other meanings too, including consolation, pleasure and wealth. Red poppies in particular symbolise pleasure.
> 
> Tulips too have several meanings (depending on colour), but the most common is declaration of (true) love.


End file.
